NEW JUNE
The town pool splashes
with half-naked dysfunction.
Kids in pink hats
and mint crocks skittle by young
moms as they flip flop
to the parking lot, straw bags swing
like empty briefcases.
Earbud-clad, gaggles of tweenagers
swagger by
manicured and pedicured,
American Girl dolls
in white bikinis
swiping glass.
This is where they learned to swim,
gliding and flying
through cerulean water,
wet mops squeezed
into latex caps, ferocious limbs
smacking behind,
little tsunamis, bronze arms
cascading through blue,
shadows of backstroke flags
wave like Autumn leaves
near water’s edge, we
cheer on our lithe Pisces,
as they flip and twist
under soft waves
of youth.
Published in Brief Wilderness